


Stim

by paintpaw



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Autism, Autistic Character, Gen, Headcanon, Stimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 09:40:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14305938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paintpaw/pseuds/paintpaw
Summary: A study of how I think Heavy thinks and acts, added with how he views his gun Sasha and the headcanon that he's autistic. All based on a tiny interaction Misha has with his gun in Meet The Heavy (and my own experience of autism).





	Stim

**Author's Note:**

> Please keep in mind that it's kinda difficult for me to seperate my own traits from those that reflect autisim but I tried.

_CHK CHK CHK_

 

That’s the sound Sasha makes when you roll her barrel in your hands. It was the sound of the rotor assembly, rolling in its casing. As it turned, the bolt roller assemblies followed it, guiding the _custom tooled cartridges_ into the bolt tracker.

 

Of course, it would. If the gun was loaded.

 

Heavy knew this well. He knew his gun very well. He’d learn every part of her without ever really meaning to.

 

It was a nice feeling. Giving a tiny amount of pressure could push the rotor on. A split second of pressure before it slid into place. It was _satisfying_ , to say the least.

 

_CHK CHK CHK_

 

Such a simple thing could bring the giant such peace. His mind would wander endlessly as his hands fiddled and his eyes stared into nothingness.

 

Until of course, those blue eyes caught a greasy smudge on something he was so devoted to. But that rarely happened, especially now since his team knew him much better.

 

Some days his mind would end up in Siberia. The vision was so vivid that Misha’s muscles twitched as he imagined himself chopping wood. Firewood, for his family, to keep them warm. He could chop enough wood to keep a fire going for weeks, but what else were you meant to do in the depths of Siberia?

 

Heavy’s thumb runs over his calloused fingers. His nail drags through the intricate indents in the calloused flesh. His hands meant a lot to him.

 

_CHK CHK CHK_

 

Writing. Fighting. Touching. Tapping. Fixing. Sewing.

 

Chopping up firewood.

 

They were his contact with the outside world. They were reliable, still able to communicate after language--English or Russian--had failed him. A wave of a hand; a shrug of a shoulder; a raised finger. People could guess his meanings, and often they were right. Helpful, considering how some days his enthusiasm for social interactions would get so low he could barely talk.

 

Heavy knew how he tucked his fingers into his armpits when the cold hit the desert. He’d be forever fearful of frostbite. Toes had already been lost to it. He refused to lose his hands too.

 

_CHK CHK CHK_

 

But other days, his mind would take him somewhere less pleasant. Taken there against his will.

 

The gulag haunted Heavy.

 

Its scars littered not only his body but his mind. It invaded his sleep. Followed him like a shadow. Even when he knew it was burnt to the ground, that he’d beaten on the skulls of those who’d hurt his family until they were mush.

 

Some dark part of his mind taunted him. It tried to convince him that he was still there and that this was all a dream.

 

_CHK CHK CHK_

 

But Sasha comforted him. The cold, hard, reinforced steel grounded him. His mind settled on the sound of the rolling rotor assembly.

 

For that moment, life feels good again. _Bearable._

 

His eyes drifted from the empty space, returning to Sasha. All through their changing fortresses and locations, she remains constant. Even if Heavy had more than one minigun.

 

Misha decides that his gun deserved a thorough cleaning. A ‘taking apart and putting back together again’. A thanks for keeping his mind at peace.


End file.
